Enough
by Nikki50
Summary: Mark, Roger, a box. A challenge fic for thebohogirls.


**A/N **: This fic was inspired by a writing challenge that I posted at my other site (). The topic was actually meant for *NSYNC fan fiction but those wheels in my head started turning and -boom!- a RENT fic was born. It's a little cheesy and there are M/R hintings for those of you that might like such things but *shrugs* I hope you enjoy. :)   
  
_The challenge _:  
  
A [RENT character] gives a special someone a small box. This box contains something very important inside of it but only fits in the palm of a hand. This special someone does not have to be of a romantic nature...a mother, sibling, offspring, roommate. Use your imagination and be creative!   
  
So what's inside the box? You decide - I think the possibilities could be quite interesting. An obvious gift would be an engagement ring but what about a key to a house? Or maybe a sentimental trinket from a first date? Or a dog tag to go with the puppy the [RENT character] just got his girlfriend? Or how about nothing at all? (You should probably explain why though, LOL.)   
  
Does this spark any ideas? Any authors inspired as I was are welcome to run with it and any resulting stories would be eagerly hosted at mine and Maggie's RENT fanfic site (). Hope to see you there! :)   
  
  
Enough   
© Nikki 2003   
  
They say that curiosity killed the cat. Now, what cathe certainly didn't know but he was going out of his mind without a doubt, thanks to Roger and that stupid box. It sat on top of their rusty fridge, inconspicuous really with its simplicity and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He would know – he checked once when Roger stepped out of the living room in one of his rare bouts of restlessness. But Mark didn't look inside; oh no, he respected Roger's privacy above all else and refrained from peeking despite an insane urge to do otherwise.   
  
It was the filmmaker in him, Mark decided, surreptitiously watching that damned box out of the corner of his eye from his current position on one of their ratty couches. The cardboard container had appeared there randomly one day and he had noticed it immediately, aware of his surroundings and filming all oddities as usual.   
  
What's that? he had asked Roger, interrupting the disjointed notes his friend was strumming on his Fender guitar.   
  
Roger looked up and then toward the direction Mark was pointing. He did what could be considered a half-hearted smile before returning his attention back to his music. It holds the most important thing in my life. That was all Roger would tell him and Mark refused to pry – Roger's business was his own.   
  
But he was still curious.   
  
Time passed and the box remained unmoved. It had gathered a fine layer of dust on its dark surface, as Roger hadn't touched it once. _The most important thing in his life? _What was so important that Roger didn't even have to look at it everyday? Mark could safely say this was the one time he let Roger's strange habits get to him. Generally, he was an easy-going guy, since as a fellow artist he had his own little idiosyncrasies that could easily grate on someone's nerves. But the mysterious box and its elusive contents was proving a challenge. What was in it?   
  
Why wouldn't Roger tell him?   
  
Roger, what's in the box? Mark asked, still watching it covertly out of the corner of his eye, as if the small cube would suddenly grow two legs and walk off.   
  
Roger didn't look up this time. I already told you, Mark.   
  
No, you didn't, Mark insisted, glowering at said object.   
  
Yes I did.   
  
Mark turned and watched his friend closely for a while, noticing the lines of strain around his mouth and the tired bruises under his eyes. Rehab had drained him and his HIV was taking its toll. Why won't you tell me? he finally asked softly.   
  
Roger met his gaze unflinching. Why do you have to know?   
  
The silence grew after Roger's counter and both stared until Mark finally looked away. Take your AZT. Roger rose to comply and Mark vowed to let the subject drop.   
  
And he did. More days flitted by and the box stayed where it was, even as Roger's condition worsened and the struggling musician finally developed full-blown AIDS. They spent all of their time at the hospital now. How they would pay for it Mark didn't know, but Roger needed it and that was that. The blonde singer had become a shadow of his former self, his body gaunt and his skin nearly translucent with sickness. The disease was slowly killing him and it was killing Mark to watch, but he stayed, sitting by his friend's side in silent support.   
  
They usually didn't talk, Roger sleeping fitfully as Mark maintained his quiet vigil, but it was on one of Roger's better days that the subject of the mysterious box was raised again. And surprisingly, by Roger himself. He was sitting up in the sterile bed, the blinding white sheets emphasizing the pale tint to his skin and the sunken hallows of his cheekbones thrown into stark contrast as a result, and quietly watched Mark as he fiddled with something on his omnipresent camera when suddenly he broke their self-imposed silence.   
  
Mark jerked his head up so quickly that Roger feared he'd given himself whiplash. He was unharmed though and smiled broadly, his hands stilling in their task and all of his energy now focused on the man before him. how do you feel?   
  
It was the usual answer whenever the question was posed and almost comforting in its familiarity; Mark's smile didn't waver, even with the terse tone. Could you bring me my bag, please?   
  
His unending curiosity sparked, Mark rose from his seat and, after placing his camera in his vacated chair, walked over to the small closet Roger was allotted and removed the requested satchel from the uppermost shelf. Roger had insisted on unpacking by himself that first day in the large cheerless hospital room, his movements shaky and almost painful for Mark to watch. Nonetheless, he still stubbornly refused any assistance and as such Mark didn't know what remained in the bag, if anything at all.   
  
But, ever willing to humor his ailing friend, Mark gently tossed the bag in Roger's waiting lap and reclaimed his seat with a false show of indifference. Immediately seeing through the act and grinning because of it, Roger dug inside the black duffel and emerged victoriously a few moments later with a small object clutched in the palm of his hand.   
  
Mark had to forcibly restrain his surprise in order to maintain his flimsy façade. _The box _. His fingers itched to snatch it out of Roger's grasp and wrench it open but he ruthlessly curled them around his camera to control the impulse. He watched – still unconcerned to the untrained eye – as Roger carefully brushed the last vestiges of dust off of the lid with thin fingers and then reverently set the small box on the nightstand next to the bed.   
  
Eyes twinkling with impish mischief met Mark's as Roger settled back into the bed clothes, the now empty bag carelessly thrown to the floor. Thank you, Mark.   
  
Mark narrowed his eyes but said nothing, unwilling to ruin Roger's good mood. His annoyance was still plain though as he reached down to snatch up the duffel and rose to return it to the closet, finally resuming his seat in much the same manner as before. Roger had laid down in his short absence and, curled on his side, seemed the picture of innocence, even with the grin that threatened to split his face at any moment. Naturally, Mark was not fooled.   
  
Eventually, Roger's eyelids drooped closed and he fell into peaceful repose, content with the knowledge that Mark stoically guarded his slumber. Shadows lengthened on the high gloss floor and nurses came and went as the light gave way to darkness. The doctors had stopped trying to get Mark to leave a long time ago, even going as far as setting a small cot in the far corner for Mark to use if he wished. He didn't, just remained by Roger's side if his friend should ever have need of him during the night.   
  
His devotion bore fruit when Mark woke later to a gentle poke on his knee. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes before straightening in his chair, inanely trying to remember when he had fallen asleep and failing miserably. Unperturbed, he smiled sleepily at a wide-awake Roger and leaned forward slightly in silent query.   
  
The blonde musician gestured vaguely to the box he had set beside him earlier. Open it.   
  
Surprised, Mark didn't move for a minute. he asked stupidly, not quite understanding.   
  
Roger smirked and waved his hand toward the cardboard container again. Open it, Marky.   
  
Scowling at the nickname, Mark reached for the box, still a bit unsure but curiosity getting the better of him as always. As tested before, it fit just so in the palm of his hand and was as unremarkable as ever, its surfaces plain in color and dull in the dim light. Mark carefully studied it and, just before lifting the lid, dared a glance at Roger, who laid facing Mark on his side and patiently waited as his roommate did as he asked. Seeing no change of heart, Mark carefully opened the box and looked inside.   
  
It was empty.   
  
Completely confused, Mark looked at Roger questioningly, knowing the blonde would enlighten him in due time. Roger smiled and shifted into a more comfortable position before answering the silent plea with a question of his own. Do you remember what I said the first time you asked me what was inside it?   
  
_What's that? he had asked Roger, interrupting the disjointed notes his friend was strumming on his Fender guitar.   
  
Roger looked up and then toward the direction Mark was pointing. He did what could be considered a half-hearted smile before returning his attention back to his music. It holds the most important thing in my life.   
  
_The most important thing in your life, Mark repeated the memory, his voice soft. He looked down at the empty box resting in his lap and then to Roger, waiting.   
  
Our friendship.   
  
Nothing could be said to that declaration and Roger understood that words were not needed. Only their faint breathing could be heard in the silence that ensued and the rhythmic cadence threatened to send Roger back to sleep. His eyelids growing heavy without his consent, he finally broke into Mark's thoughts. Keep it for me? he asked, his voice thick with impending slumber.   
  
Touched and rendered completely speechless – a near impossible feat to be sure – Mark mentally shook himself and quietly answered his friend.   
  
Smiling faintly, Roger finally gave into the tug of sleep and drifted into the land of dreams. For him, that was enough.   
  



End file.
